


Held On As Tightly As You Held Onto Me

by beckettemory



Category: NCIS
Genre: A bunch of one shots, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Other, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Soulmates, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sign Language, autistic characters, meltdowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 23:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8553850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckettemory/pseuds/beckettemory
Summary: It was difficult to explain to strangers who they were to each other; "best friends" and "coworkers" didn't quite cut it, "we used to date" implied something much different than their real relationship now, "life partner" sounded so official and stuffy, "soulmate" sounded schmoopy, and anything like "partner" or "girlfriend" made it sound like they were actually dating now.It was so much easier to just say, "this is my Abby," or "this is my Tim."





	

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for: references to murder attempts, arson, blood, explosions, violence, needles, doctors, hospitals, and discussions of death
> 
> spoilers for early season 11. set roughly during season 11 or 12.

Two words. He’d only said two words.

“Hey, Abbs.”

Just that, walking into Abby’s lab on orders from the boss, and Abby had rushed over to him, dragging him by the wrist to her computer and chattering the whole way and then some and it was making his head spin.

“McGee! So, first things first. Dungeons and Dragons last night? Amazing. Can’t believe I’d never played before. I totally understand you begging me to come with you for so long. I went through the handbooks last night and I’m thinking I’m going to give Aerith a double class ranger _and_ druid but I don’t know, do you think that would be too much? Or maybe ranger and rogue. A rogue ranger. What do you think?”

He barely had time to get out an, “uh, well, since you’re still pretty new--” before she cut him off and started up again.

“I know, I know, I should get better at playing at all before I try to double class, that’s what all the forums said, too, but it’s just so fun! And also I didn’t sleep last night like, at all, because I was all wrapped up in the handbooks and forums. Not the first time that’s happened, though. Of course, it wasn’t Dungeons and Dragons, it was Runescape. And probably Neopets, too. And some others.”

She paused and looked expectantly at McGee, a soft smile on her face. He glanced at her computer and saw a dense spreadsheet.

“Is that…?” he asked, not knowing what exactly he was asking.

“Oh, no, sorry, that’s the league’s scores so far this season. Oh, which reminds me, Bring A Friend Night is this Friday, and I already told Sister Rosita you’d be there, but of course, I can tell her you won’t be if you and Delilah have plans or if there’s case stuff to do. You can borrow my fourteen-pounder, I’m using twelve now. Wrists are starting to bother me. So? Barring case stuff, can I expect you there? Delilah can come too, but I'm not sure if the lanes are accessible.” She paused again, patiently giving him enough time to process her rapid speech.

“Oh, uh, yeah, Friday is good for me. I’ll ask Delilah. Sounds fun,” he said with a grin, and she grinned back and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Yay! And afterwards, if you’re not completely bowled over,” she paused to laugh at her own pun, even if it didn’t quite work, “I’m hosting a streaming party with some online friends in the Midwest and we’re watching at least the first two _Harry Potter_ movies. If my computer at home can handle it, that is.” She didn’t look at him, and smiled sheepishly.

“Are you asking to use my computer?” He asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“Um. No?”

“Abby, you know you’re a bad liar. Yes, you can use mine,” he answered, rolling his eyes.

“Yes!” She squealed and hugged him again. He laughed as she bounced on her toes before pulling back.

“Oh, also! Luca texted, he can totally send you his recipe for truffle mash, but you have to _promise_ not to leak it to the public, it could ruin him. Also he’s in Jamaica until next week so it’d have to be after that.”

“I understand, Abbs. Uh, you know, I didn’t come down here as a social call,” McGee reminded her, regretting it instantly as her face fell and she withdrew.

“I know. I-I mean I forgot temporarily because I had stuff to tell you. You came down for the results of the soil analysis, I bet.” She went to her computer, hitting a couple of keys and pulling up a chemical composition report from the mass spectrometer.

He stepped closer and she stepped the same distance away. He sighed and reached out, catching her wrist and pulling her back. He pulled her into a calm hug and she laid her head on his shoulder glumly.

“You don’t have to do that, I was going to get there eventually,” she said quietly.

“I know you would have,” he replied, not letting her go, “Gibbs is impatient, though. You know how he gets.”

“Yeah,” she replied, and didn’t continue, just let him hold her.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, Tim.”

They heard the elevator ding but stayed where they were. A couple seconds later they heard a short laugh.

“Don’t tell me. McGoo lost his favorite flash drive,” Tony said from the doorway, and they parted, McGee shooting an annoyed look over his shoulder.

“What is it, Tony?” McGee asked, and Tony came closer.

“You were taking too long, Boss Man got impatient.”

“I was just getting to it, Tony,” Abby replied, voice bright again. “You can both listen.”

McGee raised an eyebrow at her, an unspoken question in his eyes. She smiled and patted his hand resting on the desk, eyes answering the question. She was okay.

“So! This is not your average, everyday dirt. This dirt is _clean_ , which is strange, considering the fact that it’s dirt and that we found it in the yard of a family with eight dogs.”

 

* * *

 

Delilah didn’t really understand their relationship. At first she had been jealous of their evenings spent together, their sleepovers, the fact that Abby knew McGee’s computer passwords and vice versa. And maybe Delilah was still jealous, but she didn’t say anything.

Towards the beginning of their relationship he had explained to her that it wasn’t romantic or sexual, there was no reason that she should be jealous or suspicious of Abby’s and his relationship. And there were to be no secrets.

“No secrets,” she had repeated after him, taking a deep breath. “Okay. I trust you, Tim.”

“Full disclosure,” he had said, and she’d looked at him, alarmed. “We did date for about a month or two. But it was eight or nine years ago. And I once had to tell a delusional fan that MacGregor and Amy were going to get married so he wouldn’t kill Abby.”

Delilah’s brow had furrowed.

“Long story,” he had said.

“No, no, I’ve read your book, Tim,” she had interjected. “MacGregor and Amy wouldn’t work out at all.”

“Exactly!” he had exclaimed. She’d laughed and he’d taken her hands. “That’s what I’m saying. Romantically, Abby and I are all wrong for each other. It never would have worked. But we’re still really important to each other.”

Delilah had smiled tentatively.

“I’m really happy you have her,” she’d said. “And I’ll try not to be jealous. On one condition.”

McGee’s eyebrows had shot up. “Yeah?”

“She doesn’t get to see your butt. And I get Sunday mornings with you except when there’s a case,” she’d answered, a mischievous glint coming into her eye.

He had leaned back and grinned. “Finally going to make good on your threat to drag me to brunch, huh?” She’d laughed. “Alright, deal. Even though that’s technically two conditions.”

 

* * *

 

The clippers on the back of McGee’s head near his neck were ticklish in the worst way, even in Abby’s practiced and careful hand. He grimaced, hands fidgeting in his lap, and she caught his eye in the bathroom mirror. She turned the clippers off and set them down, clasping his head between her hands and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

“We can take a break if you want,” she offered. He waved her off.

“No, no. I’d rather get it over with,” he answered, and she scratched his temples gently before releasing him and picking the clippers up again. As she turned them back on he sighed and spoke over the whirr. “Maybe I should just grow my hair out, so I don’t have to do this every two weeks.”

She huffed out a laugh and kept trimming his hair. “I think a mullet would look great on you,” she said, and he didn’t know if she was being sarcastic.

“No, not a mullet. Something more like Tony’s hair, where I could get it trimmed with scissors and not clippers.”

She stepped back, studying him in the mirror and biting her lip in thought.

“I don’t think that would really work for you. I mean, it might, but this clipped sides thing works for you, you know? As it is, you’ve already got some good length up top.” She ran her fingers through the top of his hair to prove her point.

He grimaced. “You’re right. Tony’s got his thing and I’ve got my thing and Gibbs has his thing and you have your thing. Why mess with something that works.”

“You sure you don’t want to try anything else?” Abby asked.

He deliberated for a moment, then shook his head.

“Nah, we’re almost done here anyway.”

She shrugged and resumed working on his head. “Okay. But I think you could really look good if you went shorter on the sides and longer on top and kind of coiffed it up? You know what I mean?”

He nodded, and she planted a firm hand on his head to still him. “Right, sorry. Yeah, I know what you mean, but I think I might be too old for that style.”

“Okay, if you’re sure,” she said, singsong, with a little grin.

In a couple more minutes she was done, and he stood, grinning at her as he took the towel from around his neck and shook it out over the bathtub. Abby took his place on the stool in front of the sink and he fastened the towel around her neck.

“What are we doing this time?” He asked. “Blue-black? Black-black? Warm black?”

“Black-black,” she answered, pointing to the tube of hair dye sitting on the counter top.

McGee pulled on a pair of gloves she had handy before starting to work the dye into her hair starting at her bangs. The dyes she used never smelled pleasant, and this one made his eyes water.

“Well, what about you? You haven’t done anything different with _your_ hair in a long time,” he said, and she grinned.

“Of course I have. Last month I did warm black. In _December_.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, elbowing him. “Don’t roll your eyes at me!”

“I _meant_ something _very_ different. Like, different colors in your hair. Like Carol!”

She laughed. “I have black hair, McGee. That’s my thing.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

She narrowed her eyes at him in the mirror and his hands stilled.

“What?”

“Next time I’ll do different colors if you do a different style,” she dared.

McGee laughed. “Deal.”

They sat in contented silence for a few minutes while he worked quickly and efficiently, used to the job by now. They’d started doing each other’s hair years ago, after McGee complained about his barber’s offensive jokes and Abby about her hairdresser’s prices. They used the time to catch up when work was hectic and they didn’t have much time to talk inside or outside of the office.

On hairdresser nights they’d order food delivered to Abby’s apartment, watch a movie or play video games for a while, sometimes arm wrestle (Abby was scary strong considering how little she worked out), occasionally battle with Nerf guns (they were evenly matched), often have a heart-to-heart, and more often than not McGee would spend the half-hour Abby was in the shower rinsing out her hair dye finding subtle ways to prank her. Once, he had rearranged all the books on one of her bookshelves so that the first letter of the titles spelled out “LEROY JETHRO GIBBS WAS HERE”. She had caught him before he even left the apartment that night. He was the only one allowed to prank her. Not even Gibbs was afforded the honor.

Abby sighed contentedly.

“This is nice,” she said quietly, a small smile on her face.

McGee smiled back. “Yeah. Been a while.”

Abby went quiet, and the next time McGee looked, her smile was gone and she seemed lost in thought.

“I miss Ziva,” she murmured.

McGee frowned.

“Me too. What’s got you thinking about her?” he asked.

Abby shrugged. “It just hits me every now and then. How I might never see her again.”

McGee’s hands stilled.

“We’ll see her again,” he said, and hoped the conviction in his voice was real.

“Are you sure?”

McGee remembered the day Ziva became an American citizen, how she was so excited, how she had turned, immediately upon the ceremony’s completion, to her teammates. He remembered the look on Tony’s face when he came back from Israel and McGee had asked him about her.

“I’m sure.”

Abby took a deep breath and nodded.

“Okay.”

She gestured to the hair dye.

“Keep going, I can feel it getting crusty.”

Later, while Abby washed her hair, McGee set up the movie, hooking up his laptop to the tv in Abby’s black and red living room. He finished in two minutes flat and stretched out on the antique couch to wait and let his eyes wander around the room.

How Abby had gotten her apartment, which was built in 1994, to look like it was directly out of a Victorian horror novel was beyond him. He had no idea how she’d paid for it, either. Those black wood columns framing the entertainment center (which was really a restained old bureau) weren’t original to the building, he knew, and the detail on them was astounding, like there were real black vines climbing up them. He’d never gotten up the courage to ask if the skull resting on the end table was real.

He didn’t even realize he was sleepy until he awoke with a start and saw Abby leaning her elbows on the back of the couch above his head and grinning down at him.

“We gonna watch the movie or are you gonna sleep until Gibbs retires again?” she asked wryly.

McGee rubbed his eyes and groaned.

“Sorry. Long case,” he grunted as he sat up. Abby, dressed in an NCIS tshirt that was too big for her (probably his) and spider web pajama pants (definitely hers), her hair dripping but combed out and clean, came around the couch and plopped down next to him after pulling the laptop closer on the coffee table.

“I know,” she said. “I didn’t leave my lab for two and a half days except to go down to Autopsy once and up to see you guys twice.”

While she spoke she started the movie and then got herself comfortable, nudging McGee’s arm until it was around her shoulders and pulling her feet up next to her on the sofa. He put his feet up on the coffee table. His feet and shoulders ached dully and he sighed inwardly, trying to force himself to relax and enjoy the animated movie.

It was a good movie, but nevertheless he felt his eyes grow heavy less than half an hour in. Abby’s uncharacteristic stillness under his arm told him she was drifting off too, or was already asleep. He pulled out his phone and quickly set a timer for two hours so he could make it home before too late. Tomorrow was Sunday, after all. After checking that he had in fact hit start on the timer a few times, he leaned his head back on the couch and let himself drift.

It felt like only seconds later his phone woke him up. Abby jolted upright as McGee’s phone played a loud, annoying tone and--wait, that wasn’t his alarm tone. That was his Tony tone. He groaned and answered the call.

“What?” he asked, too tired to bother with pleasantries. Abby, grumpily blinking sleep from her eyes, paused the movie, and when the menu bar came up on the screen he saw that it had been less than an hour since he fell asleep. The movie was only a few minutes away from ending.

“Really, Tim, asleep already? It’s not even eleven o’clock!” Tony chastised him. In the background there was a roaring noise McGee couldn’t quite place.

“Yeah, okay, Tony, I was asleep. What is it?” he asked again. Abby slumped down again, laying her head in his lap and covering her eyes with her arm.

“Norris’s office was torched, we gotta investigate,” Tony explained. “I’m on the scene, I was closest. Gibbs and Bishop are on their way and so are you. I’m about to call Abby.”

McGee swiped a hand down his face. “Don’t bother, I got it. Text me the address?”

“Sure thing.”

McGee hung up and dropped his phone on the couch next to him.

“Do we hafta go in?” Abby asked without removing her arm from her eyes, voice thick with sleep.

“You do. I’m out in the field. Arson, probably,” he answered. Abby groaned and sat up. McGee’s phone buzzed and he glanced at the address on the screen.

“The site is on the way to the Navy Yard. You can come with me if you want,” he said. Abby nodded, yawned, and stood.

“Gotta get dressed,” she mumbled by way of explanation as she headed for her bedroom.

“Hey, do you have any of my clothes here?” McGee asked. “Like a suit or something?”

“Come look for yourself,” she said.

He shrugged and followed her. She gestured to her overflowing but carefully organized closet and he blinked before looking closer. There was a small section scrunched all the way to the left of greys and blues, cotton and wool instead of lace and knits. He looked through it, noting with surprise that he had almost a week’s worth of clothes in the closet. How had they even gotten there?

He pulled a shirt and jacket from the closet and changed quickly, electing to leave his jeans be.

“Hand me my number twelve shoes?” Abby asked from where she stood in front of her dresser pulling on a white band tshirt. She wore black tailored sweatpants and McGee didn’t think he’d ever seen her even considering wearing sweats out of the house, let alone to work.

He ducked back into the closet and swiftly located the shoes she was asking for--each pair was held together by numbered clips and arranged in neat rows along the floor of the closet.

“Hey,” he said when he stood back up. Abby turned just in time to catch the shoes he chucked at her.

While she put on her shoes and gathered up what she needed to do her hair and makeup in the car, McGee made a call.

“Hey!” Delilah said when she picked up. “How’s movie night?”

McGee steeled himself. “Ending early. We got called into work.”

Delilah was quiet for a second. “No choice?”

“None. Suspect’s office is up in flames,” he explained.

“Well… Damn. Guess you won’t be home tonight?” she asked.

“If I am, it’ll be really late. I’m sorry, Delilah.”

“It’s alright, Tim, it’s not your fault. I’ll text my mom and see if they can do lunch or dinner instead.”

McGee smiled. “Perfect. I’ll call you at around nine and give you an update.”

“Be safe, Tim. I love you.”

“I will. I love you too.”

He hung up and puttered around, gathering his own things and toeing on his shoes, until Abby came out of her room, sleepy-eyed but ready to go.

As they pulled up to the still-burning crime scene, Tony jogged over. It looked like no one else was there yet apart from the fire crews and a couple Metro cops.

“Evening, Abbs,” Tony greeted, and Abby wordlessly hugged him. Tony looked over her head at McGee with an eyebrow raised.

“We fell asleep watching a movie,” he explained. Tony frowned down at Abby’s head, then squinted at McGee. When Abby stepped back, Tony grabbed McGee’s hand and sniffed it.

“ _You_ have freshly dyed hair, and _you_ have a new haircut and your hands smell like hair dye. Do you do each other’s hair?” he asked suspiciously.

Abby shrugged. “We have for a few years.”

Tony looked mildly offended and a lot confused.

“Wh--why am _I_ not invited?” he asked.

A well-timed swat with a newspaper alerted everyone to Gibbs’s presence.

“Hello boss, good evening. Nice to have you here,” Tony said flatly.

Gibbs smiled and hugged Abby.

“Tired?” he asked, and Abby nodded against his shoulder. “Caf-Pow in the car.”

Abby pulled back. “Bless you, Gibbs, and everything you stand for.”

She went off in search of caffeine and Gibbs took a swig of coffee.

“What do we got?” Gibbs asked.

 

* * *

 

They were all about casual touching.

Abby was a tactile person. McGee wasn't so good with verbalizing affection. They both liked the sensory input of another person’s warmth and pressure. Knowing that someone important to them was nearby calmed them and made them feel secure, like a mug full of warm spiced cider or hot chocolate on a stormy autumn evening.

When they were together outside of the office they were usually touching, just a little, in ways that wouldn't draw attention. Holding hands, a hand pressed to the small of the other’s back while holding open a door, shoulders pressed against each other while sitting side by side in a restaurant booth or metro car, a slight brush of fingers against the other’s wrist in passing. At first Abby tended to be more conspicuous with her displays of affection, but one too many times seeing McGee’s ears flush with embarrassment after a loud cheek kiss at lunch made her realize that he was more self-conscious than she was. It didn't help that they were already an unmatched pair in the eyes of the public, a geek and a goth, and he was a bestselling author with his picture on the back of his books.

It was easier in private, away from prying eyes and tourists’ cameras and half-heard comments. In friendly company or their own homes McGee was far more comfortable slipping an arm around Abby’s waist or leaning a head on her shoulder, and Abby was more than happy to follow his lead.

She would lay her head in his lap while they talked, muss his hair in passing, reach over to scratch his back during a movie or stressful phone call. He would put his arm around her shoulder, reel her in for a hug, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. They were always reaching out to the other to brush away a stray eyelash or piece of lint, smooth down a rumpled collar, tuck in an errant shirt tag, or help fastening a necklace or choker or bracelet or sleeve button.

Little touches that reminded them: you are not alone. You are safe and loved.

 

* * *

 

McGee bounced on the balls of his feet as he waited for the elevator to slow to a halt at Abby’s floor. Their case had taken an unexpected turn and had left Abby with a mountain of evidence to sort through, both physical and digital. Things had been relatively slow upstairs, so Gibbs had waved him off to go help Abby, and after stopping for caffeine for both of them he’d complied.

As he stepped out of the elevator he stopped, instantly on guard. The lab was silent. She hadn't left, had she? He couldn't imagine why she would.

He peeked his head into the lab, a coffee in one hand and a Caf-Pow in the other. He didn't immediately see Abby, so he stepped further into the room and sat down the drinks to go investigate.

He didn't need to go far. As he turned away from the computer desk he saw Abby under one of her work tables along the wall, knees to her chest and arms wrapped around them tight. Her head rested on her arms and she rocked forward and back rapidly. Her fingers were tight against her biceps.

She was having a meltdown, McGee knew. They both had them on occasion, more often when they were particularly stressed out. He had to help.

He stepped forward quietly until he was crouched a yard away from her.

“Abby?” He asked quietly. She flinched and didn't look up.

“I'm sorry. I'm here to help.”

He didn't anticipate an answer, or at least a verbal one. Abby tended to go nonverbal during meltdowns and could communicate only in sign language, and even then with less fluency than usual.

One of her hands began scratching hard at the arm it gripped, and the other went to her head and started tugging at her bangs, not hard enough to pull any hair out but hard enough to hurt.

“Can I sit with you?” McGee asked, and after a moment Abby reached out a shaking hand to him and he took it. She squeezed his hand until her knuckles turned white, then let go and kept pulling at her hair. He took this as a yes. He climbed under the table next to her, carefully leaving some space between them just in case.

“Can you let me know what I can help with?” he asked once he was settled. He wondered if Abby's music being turned off was a cause or result of her meltdown.

Abby balled her hands into fists and pressed them to her head for several seconds, then, without looking up, shakily signed ‘MUSIC.’ It was a cause, then.

“I’m on it.”

McGee clambered out from under the table and found the stereo remote under a short stack of files and notes on her computer desk. He clicked the stereo on, wincing a little when it came on in the middle of a song, nigh on top volume.

He glanced at Abby and saw that her shoulders weren’t as tight. As he watched, hoping for more progress, she raised a hand and pointed upwards several times. When he hesitated she pointed to her ear and then pointed up again. McGee braced himself and turned up the volume until Abby dropped her hands, her shoulders raising and lowering in a heavy sigh.

McGee pulled out his phone, sending off a quick text to Tony about the state of things, knowing he’d pass along the information to Gibbs. After a moment of consideration, he texted Palmer as well to tell Ducky. Abby needed a break, and the fewer people asking her to do things, the better.

He crawled back under the table and settled himself next to her again, carefully leaving some space between them just in case she was touch-averse too.

By the end of the second song her hands were just resting on her arms, not squeezing, and she rocked forward and back with less urgency. Near the end of the third song she lifted her head.

McGee didn't think she could hear him over the music, so he settled for signing, his hands clumsily moving through sentences he’d constructed in his head but probably never signed. She had been teaching him, but he still wasn't very good. Reading sign was still easier to him than signing himself, so it mostly worked out.

He got her attention when she raised her head and her eyes, red rimmed and makeup a little streaked, focused with difficulty on him.

“IF NEED THING TELL-ME? I WORK, COMPUTER.”

She nodded shakily and held out a hand. She squeezed his hand and he smiled.

“THANK-YOU,” she signed with her free hand. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead before standing up and dusting himself off.

She kept noise-cancelling headphones in her office for him, and he grabbed them, put them on, and sighed with relief as the bulk of the volume vanished at the flick of a switch, leaving his ears ringing a little.

He got to work, running trackers and password crackers on various laptops recovered from the crime scenes, grimacing when one turned out to have a disgusting, erotic-themed, not very secure password set. On the same computer he found that about half of the used storage on the hard drive was porn, and by the looks of it, about a quarter of it was of the illegal variety. He moved on to a different computer, letting his bots do their thing and hoping the other laptops had more tame contents.

He became so focused on the work that he didn't notice Abby getting out from under the table, but suddenly she was next to him, gloves on, picking fibers off of a backpack with tweezers and a magnifying glass. He smiled to himself and kept working, but he couldn't help but notice that she wasn't working very quickly because her hands were still shaking.

He reached behind himself, fumbling until his hand found the Caf-Pow, and set it in front of Abby, and she grinned towards him without making eye contact.

“BLESS-YOU,” she signed.

He waved a hand at her in a “don't mention it” motion that he was pretty sure wasn't actually a sign, and kept working.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t that bad. It was just a black eye and a small stab wound from a shard of glass, and everyone was freaking out about it.

Tony had hauled Tim out of the building and back to the car, keeping up a steady stream of nervous chatter, where Bishop had shone a flashlight at the wound on his ribs and hissed. There had been no time to wait for an ambulance; flames licked at one corner of the building, which had propane tanks inside, so Ellie called the fire department, an ambulance, and Gibbs as Tony drove away quickly. They stopped only a couple blocks away and five minutes later, with Ellie holding a spare t-shirt to the wound, they were rocked with the sound and force of the explosion.

Tony jogged away to check the buildings nearby that _weren’t_ on fire for anyone in need of help, and maybe catch some of the gang members at the same time. McGee tried to tell Ellie he was fine and was still arguing with her when the ambulance pulled up minutes later.

One of the paramedics, Michael, was cute and had a good sense of humor, and Tim laughed weakly at his jokes until his injuries caught up with him and he got a little woozy. He was laying back in the ambulance as Michael stitched him up, an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, when Gibbs showed up.

Gibbs got a quick status report from Tony and then climbed right up into the ambulance, flashing his badge at Michael, and sat down on the bench next to the gurney.

“Doing alright, Tim?” he asked, and McGee furrowed his brow. Surely his lightheadedness was the reason his boss’s voice sounded gentle and a little afraid.

Michael looked over his shoulder. “He’s doing just fine, Special Agent Gibbs. The oxygen is just a precaution because he got a little lightheaded. The glass missed his lung completely from what I can tell.”

Gibbs narrowed his eyes at the paramedic. “From what you can tell?” he asked slowly, his voice growing stern and dangerous, and McGee felt some relief at that. Back to normal.

Michael’s hands stilled at Tim’s ribs. “Y-yes, sir. I was planning on transporting Special Agent McGee to Bethesda for an MRI and pulmonology consult just in case, but I wanted to stop the bleeding first,” he sputtered, and the hospital trip was news to McGee.

Gibbs studied him for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. He turned back to McGee. “I didn’t tell Abby or Delilah.”

McGee grimaced under the mask. He reached up with a shaking and heavy hand and pulled the mask off with some difficulty. “Abby will just find out from Ducky or Palmer,” he warned, a little worried at how hard it was to breathe without the oxygen flow.

Gibbs chuckled. “I’ll call them.”

“Tell them it’s not that bad,” McGee said, and Gibbs nodded. He reached over and put the mask back on Tim’s face, then climbed out, patting his shoulder as he passed.

Michael resumed working on the sutures and eyed Tim out of the corner of his eye.

“Abby and Delilah? Two girlfriends?” he asked.

McGee laughed weakly under the mask and Michael put a steady hand on his chest to keep him still. McGee lifted a hand and gave a shaky “so-so” motion.

Michael copied it with his free hand. “Sort of?”

McGee pulled off the mask again. “Girlfriend and partner.”

“Ohh,” Michael said. “I thought those two out there were your partners.”

“Not that kind of partner. Hard to explain,” he said shortly, then put the mask back on and tried to relax.

Michael hummed and let it go.

Tony, Ellie, and Gibbs each came to check on him at least once before they left for the hospital, and Tony hopped up in the back right before the driver shut the doors. He rode with McGee to the hospital, talking at length about movies this situation reminded him of.

“Then there’s the classic, I mean, _Princess Bride,_ Inigo Montoya? At the end, where he’s chasing Count Rugen and just repeating over and over--”

“Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die,” Michael supplied from the passenger seat, using a bad Spanish accent, and Tony laughed.

“It’s a little overused as far as quotes from that movie go, but it’s still good. Anyway, you remember, he’s chasing after the Count and gets stabbed in the gut?” Tony asked, demonstrating some kind of swashbuckling sword swish before falling over a little when the ambulance took a turn he wasn’t expecting.

McGee rolled his eyes and nodded, still wearing the oxygen mask.

Tony peered at him, his lips pursed, as he righted himself. “Michael,” he called without looking away from Tim. “He’s going to be alright, yeah?”

“He’s going to be fine, Special Agent DiNozzo,” Michael said. “The hospital trip is just a precaution.”

At the hospital McGee was shuttled from room to room, Tony waiting in the waiting room. First, an exam room, where a doctor poked at the wound in his chest and had him blow into a tube. Then to an MRI chamber, and he almost fell asleep in the machine. Then back to the exam room, and finally to a patient room. They were holding him overnight, because his lung had been nicked just barely and they wanted to keep an eye on him.

He had just gotten settled in bed, wearing a hospital gown, nasal cannula, heart monitor patches, pulse oximeter, and IV, when he heard Abby’s panicked voice in the hallway asking after him.

A moment later he heard her platform boots thumping towards his room and she appeared, her hair tousled and shirt on inside-out. She ran right up to his side and pulled him into a hug, tight at first and then all but releasing him when she remembered that he’d just been stabbed in the chest.

“Timmy,” she whispered into his neck, her voice shaking. “I was so scared. Are you okay?”

McGee nodded into her shoulder, feeling his nerves calm just a little at her touch. He had been telling himself he was fine, it was just a precaution, it was barely a scratch, but when the doctor told him they were admitting him it had hit him all at once that just a fraction of an inch further in and the shard of glass could have killed him. He had been close to panicking himself when Abby showed up, and now it was all leaching away.

“I’m alright, I promise,” he assured her. “It looks worse than it is,” he said when she pulled back, gesturing to his swollen eye.

“You were stabbed in the _lung,_  Tim,” she said incredulously.

“Abby, I promise, I’m alright,” he said, a little desperately. It was nice to be fussed over, but when it was accompanied by panic it just made him panic, too.

She nodded, wringing her hands nervously, and he gestured at the chairs nearby. “Sit, please.”

Abby paced a few times, getting the rest of her nervous energy out, and then sat stiffly.

McGee sighed minutely and tried a new tactic. “You want to see it?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Abby nodded, even this not enough to pull her back to her bubbly self, and McGee reached under his blanket to hitch up the edge of his gown enough to show her the stitches. There were eight of them, in a neat little row between his bottom two ribs on his left side, and the area around them was probably bruising, but he had forgotten that a nurse had covered them back up with gauze and tape after the pulmonologist examined him.

“Oh. Sorry. You can see them later,” McGee promised, and dropped the edge of the gown.

Abby began rocking forward and back in her chair, and after a moment reached over to grab his hand between both of hers.

“I was so worried, McGee,” she breathed. “Gibbs just said you’d been stabbed, and I thought--”

“I told him to tell you it wasn’t that bad,” McGee said a little irritably.

“I thought you were _dying_ , Timmy,” Abby murmured, and that shut him up. “I thought you were going to--to leave me.”

McGee let out a breath and squeezed her hands. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. “Not for a long time.”

Abby looked pained for a long moment, then nodded. “I’m holding you to that,” she said.

McGee smiled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


End file.
